Commuter Spy: First class pain

Our Man On the Train gives in to the urge to slip into First Class

Every evening, my journey begins with a one-stop hop from Victoria Station to Clapham Junction, where I catch the main line home. One evening, I was standing in the crush as usual. It was a particularly busy evening, and hot clouds of bad breath floated down upon me from a tall man next to me in a crumpled business suit.

I turned my face away. It was then that I noticed the rows of empty seats in first class.

After a while, a naughty thought occurred to me. In all my time commuting, I had never known the inspector to come around between Victoria Station and Clapham Junction. Why didn’t I just go for it?

I extricated myself from the mob, crept through the glass doors and sidled into first class. The carriage was empty apart from a smattering of overweight men with gleaming watches and pates. The atmosphere was rarefied, quiet. Cool zephyrs from the air conditioning unit caressed my cheeks, and the seat was as comfortable as a throne. Through the glass, I could see the tall man with the bad breath watching me. I smiled and sat back.

The doors opened and a harassed-looking woman entered the carriage on crutches. She settled herself in one of the seats, massaging her ankle. Then the train moved off.

There was nowhere to run. The ticket inspector was as shrewd and officious as any I’ve seen. In my haste I had taken a seat by the door, and I was the first passenger the inspector turned to. I had no choice but to sheepishly show him my rail pass. As I did so, I noticed the sign. Maximum penalty: £1,000 fine and three months in prison.

“That’s not a first class ticket,” he said.

My mind went blank. Before I could answer, the woman with the bad leg butted in.

“I was told I could sit in First Class,” she said anxiously. “They said it would be OK because of my leg.”

The inspector turned and pinned her with a steely gaze.

“You are not in possession of a first class ticket?”

“But I was told that I could sit in here.”

“Then whoever it was gave you the wrong advice.”

“But I was told . . .”

While their conversation went to and fro, I got to my feet, grabbed my bag and slipped out of the carriage, back into the heat and stink of standard class. I pushed into the crowd as anonymously as possible, then, using a trick I picked up from a spy film, removed my coat and jacket to disguise my appearance. The tall man eyed me suspiciously. We arrived at Clapham Junction; the inspector looked around but didn’t notice me. When I disembarked, the poor woman with the bad leg was on the verge of tears.